I’m thinking The Vienna Boys’ Choir could use a good Broadway producer. Perhaps with a Susan Stroman rousing Nazi-dancing choreographed number a la “The Producers”. Or, a rock opera inspired “Rent” like finale with some pizzazz.

From the depths of a warm downy bed at the Imperial Hotel in Vienna, Austria, I was dragged. The Imperial, a former royal palace on the Kaerntner Ring is a 5 staar hotel if I’ve ever slept in one. And believe me I have. Known for unparalleled luxury and its Imperial Tort, a divine chocolate truffle concoction, I could have stayed ensconced there for the winter like a hibernating grizzly (not the Palin kind). And I’m one tart who knows my tort. It was the ungodly hour of 8:30 am, and miene Earl* had surprised me with tickets to the Vienna Boys’ Choir. It wasn’t exactly the diamond necklace I’d been admiring in the windows of  Bulgari at Kohlmarket 8. However, as I was in search of a replacement dancing boy I threw on my gloves and fur and out into the heavily snowed in city we ventured.

Earl and I were ushered into a crowded chapel of the Wiener Hofmusik Kapelle. The Kapelle is where the rich old Viennese court listened to their music sung by hot young things back in the day of the Habsburg kings and queens. Apparently most every royal house in Europe has some of the Habsburg blood coursing through it (including soon-to-be-off-the-market Prince William). Now we know royalty is all inbred and all, but those Habsburgs really were gad-abouts. Apparently the Habsburg feature of a prominent chin (think Jay Leno) denotes the inbreeding of the line. Weird, I know, the knowledge one picks up in cafes these days. Anyhow, the Kapelle is intimate, but a tad cold and a major tourist destination. Apparently everyone wants their fix of the cutie choir lads

The original Vienna Boys’ Choir entertained the Vienna Court from the late Middle Ages. Scads of young things sang in front of the very spot where I found myself plunked on a hard wooden bench surrounded by gobs of camera-wielding tourists. Luckily, the tourists did not recognize me. Back in 1924 the official Vienna Boys’ Choir, as we think of it today, was founded. It hasn’t been entirely smooth serenading, and I do sympathize, as they’ve had their own issues with scandal. In 2006 there were allegations of abuse. But then again, we’ve all had those allegations, right?

Soon, a  flock of old men – and I’m not talking Earl-material-old – but just plain old, shuffled onto the stage in their peasant-like white robes and began to sing. I was confused. This gaggle of grey-haired, bespectled elderly men was the Vienna Boys’ Choir? My, but they have aged. Maybe the VBC has died out like the castrati (which is a good thing. Castration is so 1860). How was I to find a young, hard-bodied Bob Fosse-dancing dancing boy amongst the bent over atrophying biceps? The VBC clearly needed a better casting director, like the brilliant one hiring those marvelous singers on “Glee”.

Much to my dismay, I found myself in the midst of High Mass. I mean I knew I was in a church. I just had no idea it was for a service. It is not the kind of service I’m usually called upon to attend with my Earls. I was beginning to think my elderly Earl feared for his eminent passing and was worried for his mortal soul. During Mass there were more standing ovations than a revival of “The Lion King”.  All that upping and downing throughout the concerto. I really do protest. With a tight leopard skirt and 5 inch Jimmy Choos, it ain’t easy. Finally I gave up and let the masses around me do the massing. Besides I needed a little nap.

The Priest/ Father/ Elderly One, conducted the service in German, a language I don’t spreken. Which is fine. I mean, if I’m going to be lectured on the evils of my sins I don’t want to actually understand what’s being said. Though the priest did translate partially into Italian which reminded me of Massimo who awaits me in Roma for a little shopping on the via Condotti. But I digress.

At the passing of the Triscuit – Earl informed me it was actually called the “host” – I didn’t feel the need to join the believers who scampered forth as I’d quite enjoyed a rather large room service breakfast, including an Esterhazy pastry. The Esterhazy, named after some old prince, is a rich creation of cream, almond, liqueur and has about a million calories a slice, but worth it. I couldn’t have eaten another bite.

I couldn’t help but think how my dancing boys could have made a vast improvement with the priests’ dreadful outfits. My boys would have ditched the smocks for wife-beaters and crotch-hugging jazz pants, added some sequins, collars, a little leopard print, possibly feathers. And purchased way better shoes. I tossed a large Euro at the collection basket. Maybe those priests just couldn’t afford flashier costumes. I hope it helped.

Just as I was nodding off again, suddenly, from above, a heavenly choir of voices descended from one of the three tiers behind me. At last, could this be the real Vienna Boys’ Choir. The old men were merely appetizers – as old men usually are.

As I could not actually see my future potential dancing boys, I continued to stare at the priests on stage. And one was beginning to look suspiciously familiar. I was convinced he was an ex-suitor of mine. Especially after I caught him squinting intently in my direction. The last time I’d seen Brian was in Los Angeles years ago, though I couldn’t imagine him turning to the cloth after me. Though he did like his hands tied with a silk cloth.

The organ music continued to creak forward. It was a tad creepy, a la William Castle. Now there was a director who knew how to use a good gimmick to promote his films. For instance in one of his films, a glow-in-the-dark skeleton drifted above the audience in the movie house at the same time as a skeleton appeared on screen to scare the bejesus out of Vincent Price’s evil wife (as most wives are).  Mr. Castle’s original name was Schloss (i.e. castle, and who doesn’t love a good castle?). However much I was expecting Vincent Price to be lurking around the alter in search of a vestal virgin, I don’t think the organ music added much to this show. I couldn’t help but think what Andrew Lloyd Weber would do with this Music of the Night. He could have made it more . . . je nais pas . . . rousing? Sweeping? Sexual?

When all hope seemed lost and the old men, including my ex-Brian (he did look at me rather strangely as he proceeded down the aisle with his thurible full of incense. Was he the one who liked to wear my La Perla? I just could not remember), staggered off to the audiences’ applause, from the wings of the stage sailed forth a dozen, blue sailor-suited youths.

They were beautiful. Pink-cheeked, blue-eyed. At tops, 12 years old, most probably 9 or 10, which is a little young, even for me. I mean I’m not writing pedophile how-to books. I like to give youngsters a chance to grow body hair, at the very least. Maybe in a few years I could return and audition them. The conductor was enthusiastically waiving his arms about in front of the boys. Their voices were angelic.

Hallelujahs all sung, a few more ups and downs, the conductor turned around for a bow and I almost fell into Earl’s wheelchair. Low and behold, the conductor was the perfect dancing boy. He was in his twenties, handsome, with biceps and gleaming white teeth. Slim, good looking, he really would make a perfect replacement dancing boy. The morning was not a loss after all. I left my card with the head priest as I left.

I wheeled Earl out of the church and straight to the Café Hofburg for a pastry and much needed Vienna Coffee, topped of course with a generous dopple of cream and a shot of something alcoholic to warm me up. Though the conductor had done a good job of that.

It was there that I was informed that the Habsburg family is still alive and well in Vienna. The Habsburgs are an old royal family that ruled Austria for over six centuries. Marie Antoinette – an idol of mine, poor misunderstood thing– is a Habsburg. Marie had wickedly opulent jewels and a possible lover or two stashed about. She was so maligned. She never really said “let  them eat cake.”  Some jealous bitch said it.  It turns out an heir to the Habsburg is still about in Vienna. His name is Otto and he’s been tormented with the title of “pretender to the throne” since 1922. No one wants to be a pretender to anything. He’s witty and charming and somewhere in his late 90s. Oh, he sounds like a dream. Though the Habsburg motto is “Let others wage war, but you happy Austria marry.” I’m off to break down the palace, pull him out of retirement and find that tiara!

Staar is deep into research for her book “Around the World in 80 Men.”

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Footnote: * Earl (“friend”, or one-who-pays)